Roger Zelazny - Donnerjack

“There is more to these caverns than you’ve shown me,” she said to the caoineag . “I’m certain of that.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“A feeling, nothing more. A feeling and perhaps the presence of the blindfolded one. He would not be here if all these tunnels led to were a series of little caverns and one smuggler’s route.”

“Clever. What if I told you that you were correct, that there was something more?”

“I would ask you to guide me to it.”

“Even if it was dangerous?”

“It is in my cellar. I should know what my castle holds, shouldn’t I?”

“Many a laird and lady of this castle has gone to the grave not knowing what these tunnels contained. Such knowledge is hardly a requisite for tenancy.”

“I am asking politely. Surely that counts for something.”

“Perhaps it does, now that you mention it. Already that mechanical creature knows more of these tunnels than many who have tried to chart them. There is a tendency to misestimate their complexity.”

“Interesting. Does this mean you will show me the secrets?”

“Lest you attempt to ferret them out with your mechanical allies? Perhaps, though I wonder if they could find what I could show you. Understand, though, my willingness to guide you does not significantly detract from the potential dangers.”

“I understand… and I am still interested.”

“The way can only be found when the moon is full.”

“The full moon is just past!”

“I am sorry, but this has always been the rule.”

“Then I must abide by it, I suppose. A month more and I will be a bit more bulky but certainly not confined to my chambers.”

“Then I shall make arrangements. If it can be done, I will be your guide.”

“Wait!”

“Yes?”

“Will I see you again before the full moon?”

“Do you wish to? My presence is said to be a thing of ill omen.”

“I thought that was your wail.”

“People often confuse one with the other.”

“Yes, I would like to see you. We could continue exploring the mundane aspects of these caverns. Or… you expressed interest in the book I was reading. I could read to you if you are unable to do so yourself.”

“Tempting. Handling material artifacts is wearying. Yes, I would rather like that.”

“And I would like your company. There are certain metaphysical issues that you and the other ghosts are more equipped to discuss than even John—and I find myself rather obsessed with questions of life and death. As hard as I try to forget, something of Deep Fields still clings to me. I would like to put it from me before the baby is born.”

“Philosophical discussion and books. Yes, that sounds quite interesting. I am certain that a few of the others would join us. The crusader is a direct soul, as are most of those whose company he enjoys, but there are those among the castle’s spectral inhabitants who would enjoy such quiet visits.”

“Very well. Let us plan such an afternoon sometime soon. I do try to save my evenings for John.”

The wailing woman turned and faced Ayradyss, her green-grey gaze piercing the touch of cheer that Ayradyss had put into her tone when she spoke of John.

“You are troubled by what you perceive as your husband’s neglect, are you not, Ayradyss? You fear that here in Verite you have lost something of the love that you nurtured in Virtu. Is this so?”

“Yes.” The word was spoken so softly as to be nearly inaudible.

“John D’Arcy Donnerjack loves you no less. Believe me in this, if you can believe one with a reputation such as mine. He deeply regrets the deal that he made with the Lord of the Lost to gain your return. He has already asked that one to accept something other than your child. The Lord of Deep Fields refused. Much of the work Donnerjack does is meant to keep Death from claiming his due.”

“Why doesn’t he talk to me about this?”

The crusader ghost clanked to join them, his chain seeming more solid, more impeding than ever before.

“Because, lass, he’s a man and has a man’s foolish pride. He fears your reproaching him for what he has done, wants to bring you a solution, not a worry. But never doubt that he loves you, you and the wee bairn beneath your heart.”

“John…”

Ayradyss knelt and gathered a few of the beer bottles from the shoreline.

“Voit, help me with these, if you would. I should have something to take back and show John. He did say he wanted to hear about my adventures.”

“Gladly, mistress.”

“I should hurry back. I don’t want to miss dinner.”

“According to my chronometer, you have some hours yet, mistress.”

“Good.”

She turned her face, sad, yet strangely radiant, toward the three ghosts.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all, lass. We’ve lots of time, time for dreamin’, time for explorin’. You be getting back to the laird and tell him all about what you’ve seen today.”

“Thank you.” She gestured as if she would hug the insubstantial trio. “You’ve been such an enormous help. We will do this again, won’t we?”

One by one, each of the ghosts nodded; one by one, they winked out. Ayradyss handed a final bottle to the hovering robot. Then she turned her steps away from the hidden sea. The sound of it lapping against the gravel shore bid her adieu.

John D’Arcy Donnerjack did not hear the banshee howl again in the months that followed his pursuit of the Piper, though odd noises continued intermittently in the below ground-level area erroneously referred to as the dungeons, and the ghosts still walked the halls of Donnerjack Castle.

“I say,” said Donnerjack—having himself learned the idiom—when he encountered the crusader ghost in the company of a much shorter vision who carried his head beneath his arm, “who’s your friend?”

“He’s sixteenth century,” replied the crusader ghost, “and it involved foreign politics, so the old laird had him done Continental. I calls him Shorty.”

The smaller specter raised its head by its gory locks, and it grinned at him. The lips writhed.

“‘Afternoon,” it said. There followed a hideous grin, then the mouth opened wide and uttered a terrible shriek.

Donnerjack drew back.

“Why’d you do that?” he asked.

“I am obliged periodically to utter my death cry,” the other replied. Then he repeated it.

“It must have been quite an occasion.”

“Oh, indeed it was, sir. All classes turned out for it, though a special affair was conducted here for the gentler folk, and much sport was had at my expense.” He shook the locks away from his head. “Observe the absence of ears, for instance. I was never able to turn up even their astral counterparts to carry in my pocket as a part of my haunting.”

“Lord! And what were you accused of?”

“The poisoning of a horde of minor nobles, and a plot to poison the local laird, not to mention much of the royal court.”

“Ah, that people in their ignorance should act with such wanton cruelty.”

“Dunno as to their ignorance, but the rest was certain cruel.”

“What do you mean?”

“A torturer can make a man confess to a lot, even sometimes the truth.”

“You mean to say that you were a poisoner and a plotter?”

“Shorty’ll not be admittin’ to anythin’ more,” the crusader ghost said. Then the headless one shrieked again and began to fade.

“You shouldna ha’ said it as you did,” the other explained with a quick shake of his chains. “You bring back the guilt to the memory arid you make those things worse. He was happy with just the thought of his missin’ ears. That, and the holiday in his honor, so to speak.”